Cary
The little
crush I had on Nick carried me through the next few days, as crushes tend to
do.
I felt like
I was in junior high again, when my sole purpose for going to school was to see
whichever boy I thought I was in love with that week. I remembered sitting behind Ben Polwarth in
science class, just staring at the back of his head instead of my textbook, daydreaming
about kissing him instead of listening to the lecture. I was too shy to talk to him outside of
class, but in science, he was my lab partner; we dissected a frog
together. I wasn’t afraid to touch the
frog, like most of the girls in my class were, but I let him do most of the
dissecting, to make him feel macho. It
was no wonder I got a B in science that year, instead of my usual A. Even so, it was my favorite class.
Being
around Nick was a lot like that.
I had grown
out of my shy phase, so I had no trouble talking to him. I felt like we were friends, even if our
friendship had sort of been forced, and I loved hanging out with him. But his mere presence distracted me, and the
growing feelings I had for him made it difficult to keep playing my part as his
own personal nurse. Whether he was aware
of my feelings or not, I knew that I was crossing a line. I’d always had my toes on that line, just
being a fan, but now I felt like I had one foot over.
I had
always liked him, and he knew it; he used it to his benefit whenever he
could. But something had changed. Our relationship was more than that of
celebrity and fan, and it was more than patient and nurse. I felt more than friendship for him, but if I
let it become more than just friends, it had the potential to get awkward –
more awkward than it already was. I
cared about him, but I couldn’t let my feelings get in the way of caring for him.
So I tried
to keep my distance. Even though we were
still sharing a bus, it wasn’t as hard as you’d think. He spent most of our day off in Connecticut
playing World of Warcraft, which was
apparently a very involved game – it kept him occupied for hours, while I read
in my bunk.
The next
day, we had a show, followed by an after party.
I didn’t go this time. I’d found
the one in Miami too crowded and chaotic, girls swarming around the VIP booth
with cameras and phones in the guys’ faces constantly. But Nick had bailed on the one in Virginia,
the day after his doctor’s appointment in Boston, so he felt obligated to go to
this one. He got back on the bus in the
early morning hours, exhausted and buzzed, and promptly crashed in his
bunk. I kept my comments about his
drinking to myself and let him sleep.
When he
woke up in the morning, we were parked somewhere in Ohio, while our driver took
a nap, after driving through the night.
It turned out to be about a fifteen hour drive from Uncasville,
Connecticut to Highland Park, Illinois, and it was early evening before we
crossed the state line from Indiana. I
looked out my window in time to see the sign that said Welcome to Illinois, The Land of Lincoln and caught a glimpse of
Lake Michigan, which was so wide, it could almost pass for the ocean we’d left
back on the east coast. Then I-90 veered
north, and I could see the Chicago skyline out my window. Chicago had always seemed like someplace new
and big and exciting on the rare occasions I’d driven there with my dad or
grandparents as a kid, but now, it felt almost like home. I looked out at the Sears Tower and John
Hancock building and the Smurfit-Stone building, with its shiny, diamond-shaped
roof, and felt like I was back in familiar territory.
“Glad to be
home?” Nick asked, flopping down next to me on the couch. He was hungover and disheveled, but he still
managed to look hot with his clothes all rumpled and his hair sticking out.
“I’m not
home yet,” I replied, looking out the window, “but yeah, it feels good to be
back in Illinois.”
“Are you
still planning to drive back to your hometown tonight? It’s gonna be pretty late, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” I
said, “but it’ll be worth it. I really
wanna see Hambelina. And my dad, of
course.”
He
snorted. “I gotta meet this pet pig of
yours. You gonna invite me home with
you, or what?”
I looked over
at him, caught by surprise. I hadn’t
invited him to come with me, mostly because I’d figured he wouldn’t care
to. I’d given him his last G-CSF
injection the day before, and he didn’t start chemo again until Saturday, so it
wasn’t like he needed me around; he would be fine on his own for a night. But now I raised my eyebrows and asked, “Do
you want to? You’re more than welcome to
come.”
He
stretched his arms above his head and scrunched up his face. “It’d be nice to get off this bus,” he
said. “Sleep in a real bed… enjoy some
home-cookin’.” He shot me a grin.
I
laughed. “Well, I’ll warn you now, my
dad’s not much of a cook, unless it’s something he can put on the grill. But he’s got an extra bed, and it’s yours if
you want it. We’d love to have you
stay.”
“I’ll take
you up on that offer, then,” replied Nick, and a little thrill ran through
me. What would Jess say in the morning
when she saw I’d brought Nick Carter home with me? And introduced him to my dad? After all her talk about getting in his
pants, I was never going to live it down.
But even though I’d been trying to keep my distance, there was a part of
me that was secretly glad he had invited himself along.
We each
packed an overnight bag, and our driver was nice enough to drop us off at an
Enterprise before continuing on to park the bus. We rented a car and jumped right back on the
highway, heading south this time. It
typically would have been at least a three-and-a-half hour drive down to
Decatur, but I made it in under three.
It felt
weird to be driving familiar roads with Nick Carter in the passenger seat. Even when I’d flown out to Los Angeles to
meet him, I’d never guessed I’d be bringing him back to my place. As we got closer to home, I started feeling
nervous. I pictured his beautiful,
high-rise condo and wondered what would he think of my dad’s little old
split-level house. I thought of my dad,
probably asleep in his recliner in front of the TV by now, and wondered if I
should have called ahead to let him know I was coming – and bringing a
guest. He was always up for visitors,
and I knew he’d be thrilled to see me, but what if the house was a mess? Or what if he’d locked up for the night and
gone to bed already?
As we
turned onto his street, the street I’d grown up on, I was relieved to see a
lamp on in the front window. That meant
he was still up. The curtains moved in
the window as our headlights cut across the front of the house, and I knew he
was peeking out, trying to figure out who would be in his driveway at nine
o’clock on a Wednesday night.
I cut the
engine, and Nick and I got out. “Is this
the house you grew up in?” he asked, looking up at it, as I led him up the
concrete steps to the front porch.
“Yep. My dad’s lived here for thirty years. I don’t think he’ll move until he can’t climb
the stairs anymore.”
The porch
light went on, and the front door opened before I could even knock. There stood my dad behind the clear, glass
storm door, squinting out at us in astonishment.
I grinned
and held out my arms. “Surprise!”
He threw
the storm door open and cried, “Cary!
Why didn’t you tell me you were coming down, sweetheart?” He pulled me into his arms, squeezing me
tightly, and I closed my eyes, inhaling his familiar scent. He wore the same brand of aftershave he’d
used since I was a little girl.
“I didn’t
know for sure when we’d get in,” I said apologetically. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“Well, you
certainly did. That’s the best surprise
you could give an old man.” He ushered
me in, then looked up at Nick, as if noticing him for the first time. “And you brought company. I’m sorry, I should have introduced
myself. Frank,” he said, holding out his
hand.
Nick shook
it. “Nick. Nice to meet you, sir.”
I snorted
at Nick calling my dad “sir.” The over-the-top
politeness sounded so stiff coming from him.
“You don’t have to be formal around here, trust me,” I said, shooting
him a grin.
“That’s
right,” said my dad. “Well, come on up,
kids. Can I get you two anything to
drink?” He had probably been conked out
in his chair five minutes ago, but now he was up and animated, in full host
mode. “I’ve got root beer, milk,
Kool-Aid…”
Oh god, did he really just offer Nick Carter Kool-Aid? I laughed to
myself, shaking my head, as we followed him up the stairs to the main level of
the house. “Root beer sounds good, Dad,
thanks.”
“Same
here,” added Nick.
At the top
of the stairs, I stopped and looked around for my pig. She always followed me into the kitchen at my
apartment, but apparently, she hadn’t picked up the same habit with my
dad. Or maybe she was just hiding
because she knew there was a stranger in the house. “Hambe-li-na!”
I sang, my voice ringing down the hall.
“Where are you, baby? Hammy
girl?”
I didn’t
even care that I sounded ridiculous, or that Nick was probably laughing at me
behind my back. When I heard that
familiar squeal and saw my little, pink teacup pig trotting up the hall toward
me, I threw my arms open and cried, “Hammy!”
Hambelina gave an oink of excitement as I scooped her up into my arms,
planting a kiss on her snout. “Oh, my
baby, Mama missed you!”
I stood up,
cradling her in my arms, and finally turned back to Nick. He was smirking at me, his eyes sparkling
with amusement. “This is Hambelina,” I
said in a dignified way, holding her out for him to see.
“Aww… she’s
a cute little pork chop,” he teased, grinning.
“She’s like a bacon bit.”
“Ah, I see
you found your little oinker,” said my dad, reappearing with two glasses of
root beer in his hands. “Come on in and
sit down.”
We went
into the living room. The TV was on, and
so was the lamp next to my dad’s recliner.
The remote was resting on the arm of the chair. I wasn’t surprised to see that the White Sox
game was on. Nick noticed, too, and
stopped in front of the TV to check the score.
“Are you a
baseball fan, Nick?” my dad asked, settling back in his chair.
“Eh, from
time to time. I’m more of a basketball
and football fanatic, though, to be honest.”
“Been
watching the NBA finals?”
Nick’s
whole face lit up with enthusiasm. “Heck
yeah! I’m hoping my Celtics will come
out on top tomorrow night.”
“Celtics? I figured you’d be more of a Lakers guy.”
Nick shook
his head. “Oh, no. I live in L.A. I breathe
Boston.”
I was surprised
he wasn’t wearing that damn cap of his again, but, apparently, he saved it for
game days. He’d been hurrying back to
the bus after his shows about every other night for the last week to catch the
end of the Celtics/Lakers games. I knew
nothing about sports, but even I had to admit, it had been a pretty good
series, with the two teams going back and forth, dragging the whole thing out
to the seventh and final game.
I sat on
the couch with Nick, holding Hambelina in my lap, and listened in amusement as
the two of them talked basketball for a few minutes. My dad was a huge sports fan, and so was
Nick; it was probably the only thing they had in common, but at least it was
something. Finally, they remembered my
existence, and my dad asked about the tour.
I’d been catching up with him on the phone every few days, but it was
good to finally talk face to face. Nick
and I shared stories from the road, carefully leaving out all the parts he
didn’t want anyone else to know.
Away from
the tour bus, away from the pills and syringes and pouches of chemotherapy
drugs in Nick’s suitcase, it was almost possible to forget, or at least pretend
that he wasn’t sick, that we’d just been having the time of our lives over the
last few weeks. Nick was in good spirits
and as charismatic as ever; he talked and joked around like nothing was
wrong. I had to hand it to him: when he was feeling up to it, he had that act
perfected.
It made me
sad, though, to wonder what was really going through his head sometimes. Even around me, he never really talked much
about his feelings. He always seemed to
be in a certain state of denial, where he acted like everything was okay – or
would be, eventually. Like if he kept
taking his pills and shots and doing his chemo, he’d be cured, just like
that. Did he really believe that, I
wondered, or was he just trying to convince himself as much as me? Did he ever get scared that it wouldn’t work?
I knew that
fear. I knew that feeling of lying awake
long past my bedtime, in my old bedroom in this house, praying with all my
might for God to make my mommy better, and worrying about what it would be like
if He didn’t. I prayed right up until
the night my mother died, and for days, weeks, years afterward, I lay in that
same bed and cried myself to sleep.
Sometimes,
lying in my bunk on the tour bus late at night, listening to Nick’s faint
snores across the aisle from me, it felt like déjà vu. I’d think, Why am I putting myself through this again? But, looking over at him now, watching the
way he talked to my dad like they were old friends, I knew the answer. When you care about someone, you do
everything you can for them. You’re
there through the good times and the bad, and sometimes, you let yourself get
hurt just to take away their pain.
I could
keep my distance, but I would never abandon Nick just to protect my own heart,
when I was the one person he had trusted to help him. Some things in life are worth the risk. Wasn’t that the whole reason Nick was doing
this?
***
We ordered
pizza for a late dinner, and after sitting around for a couple more hours, just
talking and catching up, it was time for bed.
We had an early start in the morning; I wanted to pay a quick visit to
the nursing home and say hi to the people I worked with, and then it would be
time to pick up Jess and head back to Chicago in time for the soundcheck and
show.
My dad
locked up and told me to wake him if I needed anything. With a smile, I reminded him that I had lived
in this house for twenty-two years before moving out on my own; I knew where
everything was. Other than keeping up
with the usual repairs, he had hardly changed a thing in two decades, since my
mom died. The carpet was the same basic
beige she had picked out to replace the original avocado green shag that had
covered the floors when they’d moved in as newlyweds. The kitchen had the same wooden cupboards,
country blue laminate countertops, and off-white linoleum floor tiles. I couldn’t remember the last time the walls
had been repainted or repapered. Only
the pictures that hung on them showed the passing of time.
When I took
Nick down the hallway that led to the three bedrooms, he stopped and looked at
the framed photos that lined it. They
were sort of like a storyboard, sequenced to tell the story of our family. Nick leaned in closer to get a good look at
my parents’ wedding photo from 1980 – my dad a good thirty pounds lighter, with
a full head of hair and something resembling a pornstache, and my mom in her
poofy white wedding gown with long lace sleeves, her hair feathered out beneath
her veil. “She looked just like you,” he
said quietly, brushing his fingertip across her face.
I had heard
that all my life, and it was true. She’d
had the same thick, dark hair, before the chemo had taken it, and the same
green eyes. I smiled. “I know.”
I was in
the next picture, a newborn in my mother’s arms. From there, I dominated the wall; my face was
in every frame. A toddler in a red
velvet dress, standing in front of the Christmas tree. A kindergartener sporting a brand new bookbag
and two missing teeth, waiting for the school bus on the first day of
school. An eight-year-old with a long
ponytail and a shy smile, posing by the piano before my first recital.
After that,
there was a gap in the photos; I went from eight to thirteen in the next one,
taken at my eighth grade graduation, when I had a big, fluffy perm and a mouth
full of metal. Nick snickered at
it. “Yeah, yeah,” I said, “Go on, laugh
it up. I’ve seen pictures of you at that
age – and videos.”
He
groaned. “Let’s not go there.”
“Exactly. Keep walking.”
At the end
of the hall, there were two empty frames.
“What are these, the year you went as the Invisible Woman for
Halloween?” he asked, smiling at his own joke.
I indulged
him with a smile back and said, “No.
Before she died, my mom put all these up, with instructions for my dad
about what to put in them. Eighth grade
graduation… first car… senior prom… high school graduation… college…” I pointed out all the frames he had
successfully filled. “She must have
known he’d never get around to it otherwise.”
“Oh. That’s kinda neat…” he said, but I could tell
he just thought it was sad. “So what are
these last two for?”
I lifted
the first frame off its hook on the wall and turned it over to show him the
little piece of masking tape on the back, neatly labeled in my mother’s small,
round handwriting. It said, Cary’s wedding day. On the other frame was a label that said, First grandchild. I didn’t mention that there was another frame
I’d found once in the attic, one that my dad had either taken down or never
hung up. Its label was Second wife.
Nick
chuckled. “You better get a move on,
girl,” he said, elbowing me playfully.
I knew he
was just kidding, but that stung a little.
It had been just over a year since I’d ended my last serious
relationship, with the guy I’d thought might be “the one.” I had been ready to settle down with him, get
married and start a family, but he hadn’t been up for the same commitment. After hemming and hawing over buying me a
ring, when I’d been dropping hints for months, he’d finally confessed that he
just wasn’t sure about getting engaged.
We’d been together two years – which, when you hit your late twenties
and feel your biological clock start ticking, seemed like an appropriate length
of time to get to know each other. But,
apparently, I hadn’t known him as well as I’d thought.
In a way,
splitting up with him was what had prompted me to audition for American Idol. Dating after the break-up had just made me
depressed, so I’d decided to swear off men for awhile and do something crazy
while I was still single and free to do it.
I guess I had him to thank for the fact that I was now touring the country
with the Backstreet Boys and had Nick Carter standing next to me in my dad’s
house.
Something
must have shown on my face, as all that went through my head, because Nick
said, “Sorry, is that like a sore spot or something?”
I shrugged
and shook my head. “No, it’s fine.”
His gaze
lingered on me for a few seconds. Then
he shrugged, too, and said, “I don’t believe in marriage anyway. Half of marriages end in divorce, so what’s
the fucking point?”
I thought
of my father, who had never really even dated, let alone thought of marrying another
woman after my mother, and of my grandparents, who had been married for sixty
years before death parted them. I didn’t
agree with Nick, though I could understand his cynicism.
“If you
love someone, you should just be together; you don’t need a title or a ring or
a fucking certificate to prove it,” he ranted on, and that I could agree
with. “Marriage just gets messy. Love, real love, should be simple.”
“You done?”
I asked, smiling up at him to show I was just teasing.
He grinned
back, blushing a little. “Yeah, I’m
good. Let’s go to bed.”
I showed
him to the guest room, which was fixed up with a queen-size four-poster and
matching bedroom set that used to belong to my grandparents. Once he was settled, I went on into my old
bedroom, which looked almost the same as it had when I was in high school. A little emptier, of course, but my old twin
bed was still there, along with the dolls and stuffed animals I’d loved as a
little girl. The closet held boxes of my
old toys and clothes that still had sentimental value, and on the walls – oh
God, I’d forgotten about the walls – were posters I’d put up in the late
nineties. Along with images of Audrey
Hepburn from Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
Marilyn Monroe, and Betty Boop, the faded faces of various hot male celebrities
I’d lusted over back then smoldered down at me from all sides – Brad Pitt…
Leonardo DiCaprio… Devon Sawa… George Clooney… and, of course, The Backstreet
Boys.
I started
giggling when I stopped and looked at the Backstreet Boys poster. It was the epitome of a cheesy boyband shot,
with the five of them striking a different sexy pose in front of a bright blue
backdrop. Brian and AJ were dressed in
matching shiny, silver track pants, the kind that snap up the sides; AJ was
wearing the fugliest shirt I’d ever seen, some weird checkered thing, and Brian
had on a blue, cable-knit sweater with his sporty pants. Kevin was in the middle and looked pretty
normal, but in front of him, Howie had a black and red beret-type hat perched
jauntily on his head, and behind him, floppy-haired Nick was wearing a
short-sleeved, black turtleneck and looked like he was doing jazz hands on
either side of his face. I wasn’t sure
if I should avoid letting Nick see this poster or show it to him just to
witness his reaction.
I thought
Nick was a lot more attractive now; like a fine wine, he’d only gotten better
with age. Still, it made me sad to see
him so young, knowing what he was going through now. It was a lot like looking at the pictures in
the hall, the pictures of me as a little girl and mother when she was alive.
Stop it, I thought. Don’t go there. I was acting like Nick was dying or already
dead. He wasn’t. He was just in the next room, I reminded
myself. He was fine.
But then I
thought of Nick, how he was always saying, “I’m
fine,” when he wasn’t. If he was in
denial, then maybe I was in just the opposite state: acceptance.
I knew he
was sick. I knew it was serious. And I knew that, in some cases, all the
treatments and prayers in the world aren’t enough to save a person’s life.
***